These Days of Dust
by SunshineOwl
Summary: A series of interconnected and chronological young!Royai moments. Titled inspired by "I Will Wait" by Mumford & Sons.
1. With the Basket and in the Garden

To her, he was Mr. Mustang. To him, she was ... he didn't quite know. She was the small girl who answered the door. She was the girl shyed away down the hall. She was the girl who served him dinner but ate in the other room. He didn't know a girl would be here, but now, as he ascended the crumbling stairs, he figured she might as well not be a girl at all, but a maid. Or maybe a very helpful mouse.

Now that he thought about it, he payed more attention to her than he'd realized. She had short hair, something he found strange on a little girl. Maybe Master Hawkeye made her keep it that way. And, now that he thought about it more, Master Hawkeye didn't seem to pay much attention to her. He did nothing kinder than brush her off the few time's she'd come to him the entire night. Maybe that's why she had the look about her. He couldn't exactly place it, but he noticed it first when she held the door open, and again when she set his dinner plate down. It was sort of ... he still couldn't put his finger on it, even now as he wandered down the corridor to ... Well, he didn't know, really. Master Hawkeye gruffly mumbled that his room was to be here to the right – no, the left... This place really was too big for just -

_Oof._

Looking down to what he'd bumped in to, he found a little blonde head turning up to him.

"Sorry -" he began, but was cut off in thought, because, look, there it was again. That thing about her - it was in her eyes. She stared up at him in a way that made him lose his bearings, scramble to collect himself, and all but run down the hallway to his supposed room.

The wooly blankets were itchy over his legs and he wondered if they'd been sitting on this creaky bed for ages, but as he leaned over the press the corner of the fabric to his nose, he was surprised to find that it smelled clean. _Maybe she washed it_, he thought. She seemed to do everything around here, anyway. He saw her picking things out in the garden after dinner and noticed her carrying a basket of clothes out of the corner of his eye while Master Hawkeye was talking. Though he gave Roy a good long talk about how he's supposed to behave under his tutelage, he didn't once mention his little girl.

Why was he thinking so much about this girl? He was here to learn alchemy, he probably wouldn't even have time to talk to her.

Then it hit him, like a punch to the gut. The wind was knocked out of him and he knew; he could place that look in her eyes of fear, of strength, of emptiness.

She was lonely.

She, the girl with the short yellow hair and with the basket and in the garden, the girl with the glare that left him shuddering, even as he lay in bed. She was lonely, and it was because there probably wasn't even time to talk to her.


	2. Small Hands

"Let me help you with that," he said promptly, taking the plate from her hands.

"No thank you, Mr. Mustang," she replied with formality, as if he were one of her father's colleagues. Though, he thought, she was probably only a year or two younger than he.

"I insist." He smiled easily.

She was elbow deep in soapy water, the black haired boy toweling dishes beside her. He'd only said a handful or words to her since he'd arrived: "Is this the Hawkeye manor? I'm Roy Mustang," and she thought she heard a quiet thank you as she delivered and carried away yesterday's meal, and then there was last night in the corridor when she seemed to have scared him away. She sighed as she doused the plate in water that seemed to burn her hands. He had the same reaction the other children at school did – a reaction that made them stop in their tracks, stare in horror, and flee. It was her eyes. Loneliness was taking its toll on her, and her eyes got the worst of it. Even she tried not to look in the mirror too often as to not frighten herself with the brown, hallow emptiness. She didn't know why she would except any different from him, if she couldn't even look at herself without being haunted.

"So..." His speech caught her slightly off guard and the plate slipped out of her hands and clattered to the bottom of the metallic-smelling sink. He pretended not to notice. "Riza, right?" She could feel his black eyes on her face, but she kept her gaze down.

"Yes."

He smiled. He'd heard Master Hawkeye gruffly call her this, and he was glad he'd heard correctly. "So, Riza," he continued, making sure to use her name (and pretending not to take notice of how she flinched as her four letters rolled easily off his tongue), "what do you like to do? You know, for fun?"

She stared down at her hands, rough from work but now becoming wrinkled by the sudsy water. She was unsure what to say. Father had said to only address him as Mr. Mustang, and that he was to be nothing more than a companion. But what did that mean? She didn't want to meet the underside of her father's hard hand, so she decided to play it safe.

"Mr. Mustang, I don't think I'm allowed to talk about my hobbies with you."

Though he was slightly taken aback by her answer, something in him was determined to earn her trust.

"I'm just being conversational," he pointed out fairly. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with making friends."

She set the plate on the edge of the sink, watching his careful hands smooth a cloth over the bubbles and water stains. Was talking like this something that companions did? Though something inside her flared at his smooth, practiced voice, she thought _this isn't so bad_. If this is companionship, maybe it was something she could get used to. Slowly, carefully, she set the last dish into his hands. "I like to sit outside."


	3. Wordless Resolve

The sun was high and in her hair and he thought mindlessly maybe she would have been pretty if it were not so short.

"Have you ever been to the market here before?" Her tone was nothing above polite.

Her small words pulled him gently out of his subconscious thoughts. "No." He tucked his hands behind his back and watched her careful feet weave around the stones of the rocky hillside. He stumbled over himself, trying to mimic the pattern of her black shoes.

They arrived at the small, busy operation in the center of town. He observed as she weaved through the quilt of yellow and brown and red tents and banners. Every few corners, there would be a bundle of girls pointing or making hushed snickers, but Riza didn't seem to notice them. Instead, the adults seemed to favor her as she cordially bartered until her arms were filled with supplies and the few coins she'd held in her hand as they descended the hill were in the apron pockets of various venders.

As their feet beat the earthy path back to the too large manor, Roy realized Riza was balancing five bags in her tiny arms. She wasn't struggling, but still he shifted to take the burden from her collection. She turned away from him slightly and he backed away, taking the hint without further discussion.

"What a gentleman," she smiled slightly under her breath. At first, Roy tried to hide his grin, unsure if her statement was meant for his ears, but the he understood – that was her idea of a joke. He cracked open his smile and though her eyes were steadily straight forward, he could have sworn they flickered.

_Maybe she didn't have enough reasons to laugh_, he thought later under the security of scratchy wool. As he slipped into a restless sleep, he made a secret resolve to change that.


	4. Daddy's Hand

_He would never forget._

She didn't even know how they ended up out here, but there she was, beside the boy named Roy Mustang as the wind whipped their hair.

"Come on," she declared. "I want to show you something."

She lead the way through tree trunks and candle bud bushes and hovering wasps, across the scattered stones sprinkled over the creek. She ran ahead, and he was two paces behind, and eventually she stopped and he stopped too because he knew they were here.

The grass stretched for acres, the horizon littered with stray tree and lined with violet and orange wildflowers and bordered by the bright blue sky. She plopped down in the tall grass, the hem of her skirt fluttering over her legs.

"Is this where you like to sit?"

"Yes."

He sat beside her at a safe distance and set his hands on his knees, arms locked. "I can see why."

Her eyes swelled with pride and they sat for a moment, silently. Then, in a quiet voice Roy was getting quite used to hearing, she said, "Mr. Mustang, how old are you?"

"Almost fifteen. You?"

"Thirteen."

He nodded; he'd figured her around there.

But suddenly, walls rose around her. What was she doing here with a boy of almost fifteen? Was this what companions did? Anxiety claimed her stomach and flares fizzed in her chest – this was a mistake, to show him this place, her place. How did they even get here? She abruptly sprang to her feet and ran as quickly as her slender legs could take her, back the way they came. It took Roy a moment to register she'd fled, and even when he too was on his feet, he still couldn't catch up to her. _Where did she learn to run like this?_

Later, as he sat in his bedroom, reading over Master Hawkeye's notes, he heard a raised voice from downstairs. He listened for a moment, but was unable to place the words. He tried his luck and poked his head out the door frame to find Riza in the corridor, attention turned to a grungy mirror on the wall. He approached her, having not seen her since she ran, and she turned to him, glossy eyes full of fright, hatred, and shame. He opened his mouth to question her, but she removed a hand from her cheek to reveal a large, pink welt swelling from cheek bone to jaw line.

He will never forget the look in her eyes when he discovered why Riza Hawkeye could run so fast.


	5. Said Toes

He would be subtle. He would be careful. He would not let her get hurt, not this time.

Her knees were stained as she dug up the spuds, tucking the brown babies the basket one by one as she went. The earth under hair nails was a satisfying paint and the bracelets of roots around her wrists made her feel pretty.

Then, another pair of knees dug in beside hers; these were wearing navy blue pants. A boy's hands disappeared into the dirt and produced potatoes from their palms. Her cheek didn't know what to say, because it was his feet that had gotten her hurt, and their mouths hadn't moved much since their soles kicked up soil through the trees.

"Happy birthday," said his muddy fingers, roped with worms.

"It's not my birthday," said stubbornly her soiled fingernails.

"Yes it is. I saw so in a scrapbook in your father's library."

Her ears said nothing.

"This date was written in a woman's handwriting."

"I don't want to talk to you," said her cheek, tears of sweat rolling away.

"I know. I brought you a present." This time, when his palms unearthed, a small box was present. Her eager eyelashes took it, careful not to brush his hand. The box was tiny and red and inside on a little cloud of cotton were two perfect round blue petals.

"I hate them," said her toes, who were sometimes liars.

"I thought they'd look nice with your hair."

"My ears aren't pierced," said her eyebrows, which pushed together.

_Oh._ He hadn't thought of that.

"Do you really hate them?" pouted his lips, which were pressed like petals in an album.

"Yes," said her toes, but her eyelids touched in smile.

Indeed, sometimes toes were liars.


	6. Ear Needles

_It was nice, _he thought. The air was cool and a breeze played with the back of his shirt. He'd wondered what stroke of kindness had possessed Master Hawkeye when he gave Roy the afternoon off. Nonetheless, he was enjoying himself, strolling along the cobbled, dusty streets. He'd asked Riza to come along, of course. He did still feel quite guilty about what happened over a week ago, but he thought the earrings as sort of a peace offering, and though her ears weren't pierced, things were relatively back to normal, and they were getting pretty used to being in each others company. When she'd declined his offer to come into town with him, there was something off in her voice. He was still working on understanding her, reading between the lines of weary eyes and pressed lips. But still ... he couldn't seem to place her tone when she'd rejected him – was it sadness? Anger? She was probably just being careful of her father, and he couldn't blame her.

He wondered, faintly, why he felt strange as his shoes wandered along another windingly broken path. He almost felt lopsided. He wondered, less faintly this time, if it was maybe because her weight wasn't next to his, paces equal, feet balanced.

The sun hovered behind the horizon's milky clouds, and he found himself back at the manor, where Riza was nowhere to be seen. Master Hawkeye had said, very clearly (or, as clearly as such a man could say), that Riza had fallen ill and was put on bed rest, and that under no circumstances was Roy to see her. Roy was of course very concerned, but respected his teacher and did not see Riza for days.

Then, on the next Saturday, the master relieved Roy for the day once more, and was told again firmly when he returned that he was not to see Riza, who was still in bed ill.

This occurred twice more, and over the course of this month, he saw Riza perhaps once a week, when she was apparently well enough to walk around. She didn't appear very sick to Roy, who noted that her eyes did look sadder, and her face a little pale, and that her steps were very ginger. As this went on, he grew very worried. What was she ill from? Was it serious? He didn't dare ask when he occasionally saw her, but attempted desperately to read her eyes, which were very dull.

He tossed at night, wondering what was wrong, but as his mind wandered, he thought what if she wasn't sick? What if Master Hawkeye was doing something to her? He shivered at the thought, cringed under his blankets. Just what was going on here? What was he getting in to?

Eventually, however, sitings of the blonde haired girl became more frequent, and soon she was seemingly back to normal. Roy tried to ask if she was okay, but she supplied a rare smile and continued on with whatever she was doing.

He wasn't sent away on weekends any more, and if anything, he and Riza were allowed more time together. One afternoon, when Roy returned home from the market, he found Riza reading on a stuffy sofa with pads of cotton pressed to her ears. He grinned at her silly appearance and questioned her, and she, for the first time since Roy had met her, smiled broadly.

"Father let me get my ears pierced."

_I realize this chapter is very vague, but you have to think of it from Master Hawkeye's point of view. I don't want to give too much away, because I want you to figure it out, but try to think: Master Hawkeye had to finish his work, and he had to send Roy away to do so. After that month, when his work is completed, he might feel a bit of guilt for his daughter, so he allowed her time with the one person who made her happy. I think, even, he did so because Roy had to know Riza because of his research. And, about the earrings: after using needles that month, maybe he thought, "why not use them once more, for happiness." (Also, this chapter might not make sense if you haven't seen FMA:B (I haven't seen FMA, so I'm not too sure how it differs in terms of the "back.")_


	7. Shattered Photographs

"So, he just leave you alone like this?"

"Yes. Twice a year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But usually just twice."

For some reason, this troubled Roy. "Where does he go?"

"On business. I think he has colleagues."

"And ... you're here alone?"

"Yes." She set the basket of laundry on the tabletop.

"But – you're a girl. You're a kid," he said lamely. "You can't be left alone for – for a week!"

"Sometimes it's more than that," she said fairly, fingers moving deftly as she folded shirts. "And, I'm not alone. Not this time."

"I wonder why he let me stay this time. It thought he didn't want us spending too much time together. Leaving us alone in this giant house for a week doesn't sound like him," Roy mused.

"Say what you will of my father, but he always has his reasons," she said, eyes on the clothes. "Even if they're not apparent to me. Or, you," she added as an afterthought, pouting as though considering an unpleasant secret. Roy searched her face, wondering what he was missing, but she was unflappable.

"So," he said, tone declaring an obvious change of subject, "what do you do, to pass the time by yourself?"

"Well, I do the usual. Chores, cooking, cleaning. Sometimes I clean other parts of the house I don't have time to tend to when Father's here. The manor's so big, you know." She paused. "And I - sometimes I get a little scared to go to some rooms, because it's dark and creaky, and so some parts of the house haven't been touched in years. I know it's stupid," she went on quickly, as though apologizing, "because there's probably no more than cobwebs and rats. But ... still."

Roy smiled inwardly at this little confession, because Riza Hawkeye was opening up to him, even if it was as her fingers flew over shirts, eyes to the table.

"Well ... since I'm here, it won't be as scary, right? Why don't we go investigate those rooms? You know, like detectives."

She blinked up at him. "Oh, no, Mr. Mustang, I couldn't ask you to-"

"C'mon, it'll be fun!" He was already halfway up the stairs. "And? Since your father's not here, you can call me Roy."

"Okay, Mr. Must – I mean..."

The afternoon was, she thought, for lack of a better word, _fun_. It was fun. It's been a while since she'd really had that. They'd sneaked into rooms, over creaky floor boards and under flickering light bulbs that swung like skinny bodies. Spiders claimed corners and and mice scurried into holes in the walls. The bounced on old, stuffy mattresses and tried on feathery hats from old trunks. They spent hours sifting through dusty boxes and cluttered chests, flipping through pages stuck together from neglect and marveling at ornate picture frames.

Riza was thumbing through the lines of ancient text when Roy called to her, "Hey, do you who this is?"

She craned her neck to find him staring at a large picture that was not so old, save for the film of dust. She knew it well. "No."

"Really?" He heaved the giant frame over and propped it beside her. "She kinda looks like you."

She knew. The woman in the photo had hair like hers – the same shade, but very long and straight. Her eyes were brighter, but she and the girl shared the same face – delicate and soft, though Riza's was scared by solitude.

"I don't know her," she said thickly, and turned away.

Roy opened his mouth to protest, but then something clicked. A missing link. Riza, who lived here with her father, was left alone, and did not know the woman. She said she did not know.

Suddenly, he didn't want to look at the picture any longer.

"Riza..."

She flinched at her name.

"What ... what happened to you?"

Her eyes met his with a sad smile. "You mean then? Or now?"

His eyes widened as he wondered just how much Riza Hawkeye has been through.

"I – can you tell me?"

She shook her head with that terrible smile still upon her lips, that smile that poured sand into his heart. _Why was she smiling? What did she have to smile for?_

"No. But I'm okay. Now, at least." She stood and shook dust from her dress. "I'm not always okay, but I get better. I always get better. Aren't you hungry? I'll go make dinner."

He watched her tiny frame leave the room, her body a shady silhouette against the pink setting sun though the glass panes. He wondered how often she had to get better – from the picture, from her father's hands, from however "ill" she became. He wondered who she really was, and he wondered just how broken a single little girl could be.


	8. Raconteur's Blade

If a person like her could be happy, she thought, this would be it. This, in the grass, swirling her fingers through dandelions, sunset shining on their faces. This would be it.

"Tell me something."

She let her fingers brush over weed petals. "I'm not really one to tell stories. I usually read them."

He rolled over onto his stomach and grinned. "Oh, come on. You've got to have something to say in that pretty little head of yours."

"No," she said, turning shyly down to the yellow sprout.

"Well, something you don't know is that _I _happen to be an _excellent_ story teller," he said, chest puffing.

"Is that so?"

A smug smile spread across his lips. "It is. Allow me to demonstrate." He cleared his throat dramatically and Riza breathed a light laugh. "One upon I time-"

"Oh, you're so predictable," she groaned.

"Hold on," he defended, "you have to hear the whole story! Once upon a time, there was a raven of a child who lived in a nest where all sorts of bird were welcome. He was incredibly handsome, of course-" A snort clipped in. "Stop interrupting! You're ruining the mood! Anyway, the Raven had bright eyes and so he traveled to a crumbling castle to study, to fill his bright eyes." He rolled over again and looked at Riza. "While there, he met a little duckling girl. She had funny feathers, they were too short-"

"Hey!"

"-but the Raven thought it looked nice. So, the Raven and the Duckling were friends – er, companions – and they spend their days in the grass until the Hawk returned to his crumbling castle."

Riza let a beat pass. "Is that it?"

"Yeah. I don't know how it ends. Neither do you."

She flopped onto her back. "I think you give yourself too much credit – you're not _that_ good of a story teller."

"It probably would have been better if you didn't keep throwing in your two cents."

The ghost of a grin danced over her lips. She fell silent.

"All right – it's your turn. This is a fair trade."

She was quiet a while longer. Her fingers found a stray blade of grass floating through the heads of its fellows. She began to peel at the brown threads. As he pulled at green blades beside her, she said, "I don't like to pick at the green ones. I say, if they're already alive, don't kill them."

Picked green shreds fell through the space between his fingers. "What about that one?" He nodded at the crunching piece in her hands. "You're pulling it apart."

People like her, it seemed, couldn't be happy for long.

Her brown eyes matched the grass as that sad smile returned to her petal lips. "This one's already dead."


	9. Apron's Fist

The train window was solid and grimy and his head bumped on it irritably, like a memory that he could not shake loose.

* * *

"You're going?"

"Yes, tomorrow."

She nodded. "I'll go wash your shirts."

Her fingers, pink from scrubbing, wrung the checked cloth as she tried to place her emotions – tried to identify the strange ones, justify the unknown ones. She was selfish to keep him to herself. They'd been together as the wild flowers thrived, as dirt turned to cracked clay, and as the grass dried to crunchy paper pencils. Now the dust fell as smothered snowflakes, coating the cool autumn in a cream canvas, and she had to let him go, if only for a while.

He appeared, cheeky face spilling over the door frame, the rest of his body following after. His hands wasted no time in finding the cloth of his articles and wringing, pressing, and folding in tune with her.

"It's funny, don't you think? That home is so different for the two of us?" She nodded, willing him to say the words she would not. "You're here, in this big house, just you and him." His tone was soft; she knew what he was going to say. "You'd think you'd get as much attention as you like, but you don't. For me, home is with my aunt and foster sisters. It's like Mother Hen and a nest of chirping birds." His words were of annoyance, but his tone fond, smile reminiscent. He caught himself, and shook his head. "Sorry. I don't mean to go on." He turned to her and studied her face for a while before saying, "I wanted to give you a present before I left, but I didn't have the time or money to buy something at the market."

"Oh, Mr. Mustang, there's no need to-"

He grinned knowingly. "That's alright. I wanted to ask something of you, though."

"Of – of me?"

"Yes. I know it sounds silly, but would you mind sparing me a smile? I want something pretty to think about on that long train ride home."

Her cheeks flushed and she turned back down to the wash bin. "I'm afraid you've tried your luck in vain, Mr. Mustang. You may be a gentleman, but if you didn't get me anything, I'm not giving you a gift either."

"It was worth a shot," he said, the corners of his lips twitching. As he set the last shirt down and left, he figured one genuine smile from her would be priceless, anyway.

The following morning, Riza stood by the door, holding Roy's large leather suitcase with ten fingers by the handle. It was too bad, she'd be alone again for a few weeks, but it would be alright because Roy had taught her how to not really be alone. He didn't know it, of course, but if she sat by herself and thought hard enough, bits of her mind would collect memories until his face had been recreated to the last detail behind her eyelids.

He took the suitcase wordlessly. Riza had wanted to accompany him to the train station to see him off, but her father had said Roy was fully capable of walking through town by himself.

Roy smiled lightly at Riza and offered a one-sided formal goodbye with his Master, who grunted in return, and set off down the long, narrow driveway. Riza stood at the door until he was a black fleck among white ants, and he turned one last time to wave. He would have liked to say he could have seen her smiling through the snow, but he could not pretend. He couldn't pretend he didn't see her raise a finger to her eyelid, and he couldn't pretend he didn't see Master Hawkeye's firm hand connect with her cheek, and so he turned away because if he couldn't pretend, he didn't want to see.

* * *

His mouth was sour as his head replayed it – large hand over small cheek. This time, his mind even supplied a fabricated _pop_. The train's window bounced against his temple, and he thought of how he wished to have something pretty to think of, instead of turning over that _pop_. He realized how wrong he was, because she was pretty. She was a pretty girl wearing and ugly apron – an apron sewn from rough hands and embroidered with hair thread of the woman in the dusty picture frame, and pocketed with a collection of bad memories and bitter days.

Roy's fists balled at his sides as he swore to remove that terrible apron, to tear it to rags. He would burn it away if he needed to.

And he'd show her how to throw a proper punch while he was at it.


	10. Stumbling Apprentice

Being back home was just as Roy had expected. It was loud and busy, the smell of smoke and perfume heavy in the air. His sisters were overjoyed to see him again, clinging to his arms and shoulders, chatting hallow words and prompting too many questions for him to give any kind of response.

They ate, they chatted. Roy talked of his studies with Master Hawkeye, saying only that he was learning the basics and would be under his tutelage for quite some time. His aunt told him of politics, which he did not fully understand, and his sisters gabbed away as usual.

One evening as the girls chirped, Roy sat back in his chair and let his mind wander. The sound of the girls really did remind him of birds, he thought with amusement. He recalled absentmindedly that he'd told a story of birds to ... to her.

He bolted up in his chair. What was she doing, sneaking into his mind unannounced like that?

"What's the matter, Roy?" one of his sisters pouted. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He smiled sadly as he recalled the girl with the raw cheek and haunted eyes. He had seen a ghost.

The night bore on, and eventually the conversation which he listened in on faintly turned to the girls ogling over their new boyfriends. Roy sighed, having no interest in their relations with Simon-down-the-street or Von-what's-his-name.

"Where're you going? Surely you want to tell us about _your_ new girlfriend?"

"Yeah," another cooed. "Have you met some pretty little thing in that town you're staying in?"

Roy laughed lightly and dismissed their teasing, trying not to think too much of the blonde head that kept drifting through his line of thought.

* * *

Days passed like clockwork and were filled heavily with rich food, smoke, chilling weather, and _chatter_. All the chatter – about boys, school, friends, Roy, questions about alchemy, enthused pleas for a demonstration. Roy easily grew weary, excusing himself and turning in early. He had grow accustomed to quiet evenings, the melody of her soft voice. The haze inside reminded him of the stuffy manor, the clipped winter air was too clean for his adapted skin. As he sat in bed, he wondered why he'd not thought to record the Hawkeye Manor's telephone number, but quickly reminded himself that the only dusty telephone in the house was positioned in Master Hawkeye's study, and she surely wasn't able to use that.

The night before Roy's departure, he sat again with his sisters and aunt around the musty fireplace, eyes lulling lazily as the talk around him was endless.

"Roy," whined a voice, "you've hardly told us anything of your studies! Surely you haven't left us for this long time not to have any stories?"

"Yes," cheered the small audience, "stories!"

He did not want to disappoint the clouds of pouting lips, so he obliged. "The manor is like a crumbling castle," he began dramatically. The explained the maze of unused rooms and ancestral objects, the crowded library and his master, who was gruff and disconnected, but a genius behind foggy eyes. The girls _ooh_ed and gasped and awaited his next words with thick eyelashes.

"So it's just you and him?" one piped in, a small choir of giggles following.

"No, his daughter's there, too."

As soon as he said the words he knew what kind of reaction they would receive.

"A daughter?"

"Is she pretty?"

"What does she look like?"

"Does she like you?"

"Do _you _like her?"

Titters and sneers echoed through the stone walls (stone walls, Roy knew, that had ears, that collected every syllable uttered. He knew not to saying something he didn't want to be whispered elsewhere, or worse, stuck in the room until the next time he returned home).

"Girls, I think it's time to turn in." He feigned exhaustion as he rose, stretched his arms, and stifled a yawn. He smirked as a chorus of protests ran about the circle of eager eyes, but Roy said no more and retired.

* * *

He tugged his collar up around his neck as the new February air pried at his pale skin. He'd been gone four weeks, and though it'd been a good four weeks, he had to remind himself that he didn't have to walk so quickly as his shoes crunched through the snow. He was eager to continue his studies and eager to learn even more about alchemy. He almost missed Master Hawkeye's unshaven face. Almost.

He tapped the ornate knocker on the front door, an ugly, brass thing shaped crudely like a hawk, and waited. Slowly, painfully, the old chipped door swung back on its hinges and revealed that small, familiar face. It was like a punch to the gut, seeing the same face here, in the same circumstances as nearly a year ago. Now, though, her face wasn't so fallen and round and her eyes were a little brighter and her slender fingers combed through the loose hairs at her nape. He wondered if he looked different to her at all when she offered him a slight smile and pulled the door back for him. As he returned her smile, he noticed a faded purple splotch on her jaw and shivered as he thought of how many times she might have been hit while he was gone.

Dinner was quiet, as Master Hawkeye didn't care much about his pupil's visit home. The master certainly wasn't one for small talk or meaningless words, but Roy still offered how eager he was to continue his work in alchemy, and Berthold glanced up and nodded before putting his spoon in his empty bowl and retiring to his study. While Roy helped Riza with the dishes, he noticed that she kept pulling on the stray hairs that'd grown at the base of her neck, and under closer examination he saw that her light, yellow hair had in fact began to crawl down her neck, threateningly close to her back, and feathers had sprouted around her ears. She caught him looking and her lip curled shyly.

"It's gotten too long," she explained softly.

"Why don't you get it cut?"

"Father wouldn't allow it."

"Have you asked?" He didn't need to say it. He knew the man hadn't taken notice of something so insignificant as his daughter's hair in a long time. "I could cut it for you," he said quietly.

"Father wouldn't allow it." Roy's words were out of earshot to anyone but her, and by her response, they could have been talking about anything had anybody been listening. Of course, no body was.

Roy eased closer to her so the side of his head brushed hers. "We could be careful. We could do it at night. No one would know." His breath tickled her ear.

"Mr. Mustang-"

"Let me do this for you." He smiled down at her.

"Okay."

* * *

Roy's feet were careful, trying desperately not to let the ancient floorboards creak under him. Master Hawkeye had been in his study late into the night, and even then Roy waited several hours until his master's bedroom door closed to sneak down the corridor to be sure he wouldn't be caught. As his bare feet slid down the hall, he hoped Riza hadn't fallen asleep, or forgotten, or thought he wouldn't come as he'd promised. But he saw the outline of light from under her door and pressed it open lightly to find her still in her skirt and shirt, reading on her bed.

She smiled (she seemed to be doing that a lot as of late) and set her book down. She pulled out a chair from her desk and set a bucket beside it and handed Roy a pair of long scissors. As she sat, he held the shears and realized with panic that he'd never cut a girl's hair before. But she was sitting here, facing the wall, ankles crossed and hands folded, waiting, so he put the scissors near her ear and snipped off a strand, terrified of cutting too close.

He was nervous, she knew. She let him go slow, she didn't mind. "How was your trip?" she said very softly.

Her voice startled him, but he continued working, one yellow thread at a time. "Good. I missed my sisters."

_I wonder if that's how he gained his title as an excellent story teller, by relaying tall tales to his sisters,_ she mused. "You're older now, right?"

"Mm-hm. I turned fifteen a little over a week ago."

She let several beats pass. "I missed you."

This time, her voice didn't send shivers through his body. Her words did. "I missed you too." He lowered his shaking hand to her ear, snipping off several more hairs. He let his eyes wander as he worked. They fell on her little blue earrings he'd given her. They looked great – he complimented himself on his fine eye for jewelry. Then, without really realizing, his gaze had meandered down her face, where the purple bruise lay. His fingers drifted toward it and touched down on soft flesh, goosebumps rising under his fingertips.

"Him?"

She gulped and nodded slowly.

"Where else?"

She rose a trembling hand to put his in hers, terrified gaze straight ahead, not daring to look at him. She let his fingertips brush her temple and a spot along her opposite jaw bone that was slightly raised. As she dropped her hand, he let out a shuttering breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't do it."

He swallowed. "I'll show you. I'll show you how to hit back."

Her eyes found her lap and he remembered he was supposed to be cutting her hair. He cut around both ears and let the feathery victims fall into the bucket. He worked his way to her neck, where the pinky-length tendrils lay. She sighed audibly as he cut them off. He became distracted again by her pretty skin, eyes drifting down to the collar of her shirt. There was something there, beneath the fabric. It looked almost like a birthmark. Unaware of what he was doing, his finger traced down her neck and met the birthmark-thing. She gasped and her hand flew over his, swatting it away. He took a step backward.

"Riza..."

"Don't."

"What was that?"

"Stop." _How could she be so careless? How could she not foresee this?_

"Riza..."

She turned to him, tears in her eyes. "Don't touch it."

"Can I see it?"

"_No._"

Suddenly, he realized what he had just asked of her. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry."

She turned her back to him and pulled her collar over her neck. She was ashamed, nervous. She felt nasty, soiled, and was disgusted with herself. Worst of all, she was disgusted with the little though that creeped in the back of her mind: _What if he doesn't think I'm pretty because of it? _She hated herself.

"I'll go."

"No. Finish my hair."

She resumed her position in the chair, careful to keep her collar high.

"I'm sorry," he said to her neck.

"I shouldn't have snapped," she said to the wall.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"Don't say anything. To anyone."

"Of course. I would never."

He finished in silence and handed the scissors to her. She took them with soft lips. "I really did miss you."

He knew; she didn't have to say so. He didn't either, but he did anyway. "Me too."


	11. Girl's Steady Knuckles

**Sorry for the long wait, school's started up again and my updates won't be as frequent. Also, I've probably disappointed, as this chapter is mainly setting up for Ch. 12. I hope you can bear with me. I'd like to thank my handful of faithful followers of the story who have returned to read each installment (though I wouldn't mind a few more reviews) and as always, thanks to the beautiful Jess (lieutenantriza on tumblr) for encouraging me to get off my lazy butt and write something.**

The cold weather called for potato stew and thick blankets and long sleeves. The manor would never be full of life, but as winter stretched on, the house was as busy at it could be. Roy hardly found spare time between his alchemy training (which was becoming increasingly difficult with each page he read or lesson he attempted) to do much outside of cutting firewood or help with the occasional chore. He and Riza didn't have the time to wash dishes together or look through old rooms or visit the wildflower fields.

Spring was quickly approaching and Riza realized one night as she dusted picture frames near the fire that she hadn't spoken much to Mr. Mustang in the last several weeks. Though, that didn't mean they didn't see each other. He would bump into her when carrying firewood or nod in thanks as she passed him dinner to take to his room while studying and she would sneak him a smile if they passed in the hallway. Riza knew they didn't need words to say something.

Another week came and passed and Riza was up reading late into the night, soft lamplight filtering under her heavy door. She would be lying if she said she wasn't startled when that door pushed in, revealing black hair and a face that was unmistakably Roy's. She sat up and smiled; they hadn't met at night since her haircut.

"Hi," he whispered, swinging the door back gently. She nodded as he crossed over to her, still in his blue pants and checked shirt, and pulled out her desk chair. Once seated, his lip turned up almost guiltily. "I'm sorry we haven't talked a lot lately."

"Oh. It's okay. Me too."

"I wish we could talk under kinder circumstances, but there's something I wanted to ask you about."

"There is? What it is?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted to talk to you now while we can be quiet. It's about your father."

Concern flashed through brown eyes. "Is he doing it to you? Is he spacing out?"

"What? No-"

"He doesn't know he's doing it, Mr. Mustang. It's how he-"

"Wait, wait. I'm not talking about that. I mean..." He stood from the chair and took a few steps to her. Any softness in his black eyes was gone and replaced hard determination. "I mean him and you." He raised a hand to let his fingers hover over her cheek. "And this."

Her eyes found the floor. "He didn't use to," she said quietly. She repeated herself, this time louder. "He didn't use to, but after my mother died, he started to drift. We were never really close, but I know he loves me." She turned her head to him with those unflappable eyes.

"It doesn't seem like love," Roy said, still standing in front of her.

"Mr. Mustang, please try to understand. My father's life is his research, not me. That's how he is." Her expression softened a little at an attempt to put him at ease. "He's not my life either."

"How can you say that? You work, no, you cater to him. You dance around him, you let him have his hand at you. It's not fair. Why don't you hand back what he gives you?"

"My father doesn't have time to hear-"

"I'm not talking about words. I'm talking about your fists."

She gasped slightly, looking down at her small hands. "I could never-"

"Yes you could."

Eyebrows furrowed, she swallowed, looking up at him, fingers curling. "Mr. Mustang, I understand what you want me to do, but it's not your place. My father and I don't have the best relationship. He's harsh, and that's rubbed off on me too. But we do things like this because that's how we handle ourselves, and you don't have the right to want me to change that, because I won't."

Her words seated him. "So," he began quietly, "you're going to let him hit you?" She was silent. "Riza, I'm not going to sit by. You've sat by enough for the both of us. Let me help you; let me teach you."

She blinked, pressed her lips. "I don't need your pity."

"If you think this is pity, you don't know me like I thought you did."

She swallowed again; her eyes met her hands. "Alright."

He nodded. "One more thing." He didn't allow himself time to be nervous. "What did he do to your back?"

Her head shot up. "How did you-"

"You weren't really ill, were you? I was so worried, but you weren't sick; he did something to you. What is it? I need to know."

She shook her head. "Not now. He said-"

"Riza, you need to tell me. I need to know you're okay."

"Remember when I said I always get better?"

"Riza…"

"Let's just say … let's just say, we're going to be together for a while, Mr. Mustang."

* * *

It was difficult to find time to meet, but Roy couldn't think of much else that was more important. If her father had gone into town, they practiced. If Roy five minutes to spare, or if Riza finished chores early. He taught her to place her thumb between her first and second knuckles, to never tuck it inside her fist. He taught her to tilt her wrist slightly. They practiced on stuffy pillows or walls of abandoned rooms. As Roy instructed her, he kept wondering when she'd need to use her new skill. The thought sent icy shivers through him and he continued to teach her to keep his mind off it. After about a week, Riza had a solid punch down. There was just one thing left.

"Punch me."

"Excuse me?"

"We're not going to know if you can really do it or not unless you punch me."

She straightened. "Mr. Mustang, I'm not going to punch you."

"If you don't, it might not work on him."

She faltered. "O-okay. Where?"

"Not in the face. He could dodge or you could miss, or you could hurt your hand on his jaw. Though, if you could get him in the nose, that wouldn't be bad."

She hovered. "I don't want to punch my father in the nose."

"Well, hopefully you won't have to punch him at all." He stood squarely in front of her. "Punch me in the stomach. As hard as you can."

"Are you sure..." she said timidly.

"Positive. Give it all you've got."

She took a position across from him and readied her fist. "I – here I go."

Tiny fist connected with hard muscle, the impact of knuckles knocking the wind straight out of him. He stumbled back half a step and steadied himself. "That was – pretty – good," he managed after recovering.

She smiled with satisfaction, then said, "Are you alright?"

He grinned. "Fine. Now, you're not going to have time to prepare yourself like that during the real thing, and his gut's thicker than mine, but let's cross our fingers that the fact you've punched back is enough to stun him."

She nodded. "And then?"

The image of her bare feet fleeing through blurs of brown and green flic_kered behind his eyes. "Run."_


	12. Her Eyelashes Were Earth

**Sorry for the long wait, I've been up to my eyeballs in school work already! I've also been working on this chapter a bit because I wasn't happy with how I did it the first few times, and it's a delicate subject and I wanted to handle it carefully. In the end, I chose to edit out a lot of the original work of this chapter and to keep it vague, and leave a lot to the imagination. If you're still confused, please leave me a message and I will try to clear it up. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Jess (lieutenantriza on Tumblr, lunarism on ) and her fic "A History of Fire." I loved her idea in Chapter Three of Riza whens she – well, you'll see. Please, go give it a read and review for her, she deserves it!**

**I have two more pieces of business then you can get to reading. I wrote an original piece and if any of you would like to give it a glance, I'd be forever grateful. My tumblr is lionhearted-hawk, and if you would add **/post/30690319580/pocket-change-keeper** to the end of my url, you can read it. It's very short and written a bit like this story. Also, and this is important: it's essential to me to know that people enjoy my work and want me to continue, therefore I will not be posting Chapter Thirteen until I reach 35 reviews. If you want me to continue quickly, please leave a review.**

**That's all, enjoy!**

Hands in rough dirt. Knees rooted into soil like potatoes all that time ago. Frustrated fingers, furrowed brow. He tried, one more time. Array, clap, and -

_"Dammit."_

He slumped back into the brown. Each time ... he'd read and read, but when he tried to preform, a spark, and that was all. The worst part was that he didn't know what he was doing wrong. If alchemy was scientific, why wasn't there an obvious answer, hypothesis, anything, for his mistake? If life was scientific, so was transmutation. But he couldn't do it.

Defeated, head connected with solid ground and eyes met the sky, which was a pretty blue. Surely Master Hawkeye was watching from the window. Sitting up, he snuck a peek behind him, and was instead surprised to see Riza coming toward him. He smiled – he had hoped she would come to distract him – maybe she'd brought him a drink, or they could steal away to go pick vegetables, or-

But – no. Something was wrong. She was running – was she smiling? He couldn't tell, he couldn't ... she was-

"Roy," she breathed, small fingers trapping around his wrist like death.

They flew. Like birds, like the Raven and his Duckling. They flew, bare feet turning to talon over droplet grass, under vast sky. He didn't have time to ask, she didn't have time to say. They flew.

The trees stopped around them and her hands gripped his wrists tightly. "Roy. I hit back."

Her face was shining, smiling, feathers proud. But something still wasn't right. What had she said? She was smiling, yes, but her face ... a welt. On her cheekbone. A purple heart under her eye. And something red on her wing.

He'd stumbled over a few words, and her shining face nodded, purple blessings glinting in their sun. And then, it really, truly hit him, because she was hurt. The little Duckling was hurt, but she wasn't so little as violet medallions shone.

More words crawled from his lips, and he wasn't sure what he was asking, really, but he needed her to be okay. They perched and she spoke and he wasn't listening much but staring at her, her three wounds. Wounds. This girl shouldn't be hurt, it was not right. Why was she smiling, what was she smiling for?

She was not smiling. He realized – he'd read her wrong. The shining he saw – it wasn't happiness or satisfaction like he'd thought. It was determination. Strength. It was everywhere, in her eyes, on her cheeks, in her hair, on her skin. It was in her blood, her fingertips, rooted in her bones. It was her, it was everything, it was the sun and stars and everything was this girl, was Riza Hawkeye. Life was supposed to be scientific, but how could it be when her eyelashes were the earth and the ends of her hair made space.

* * *

She told him again, later. That she'd dropped the plate, _her_ plate, and he'd smacked, so she hit, and he hit again, and she shoved his back into the stove and scraped her arm on it as she got away. And then she ran. Despite this, guilt plagued him, because she wasn't supposed to get hurt any more. He helped her clean the burn and he told her he was proud, and glad that she was okay, and she sat quietly and while his fingers rubbed something cool on her forearm.

Riza Hawkeye was right about her father, of course. He really was a brilliant man, devoted to his research (as she knew all too well). Not a very open man to begin with, having a wife was something a man like Berthold could never have imagined. They had fought. He yelled, she would yell back. He didn't always make her happy, and he could never be happy, but she made his days as light as was possible. When she died, his one bit of gold had turned to fool's and crumbled away, bits of dust sprinkled in a small girl's hair. At times, as she got older, he would look at her and not see the girl, but the pretty, fair woman with whom he'd fallen in something close to love. At first he didn't intend to hit her, but he could not stand to look at the yellow hair of someone he had to remind himself was his daughter.

There was something else, too. He knew it as he lay awake at night or swallowed teaspoons of bitter syrup. Flame alchemy could not lengthen lives. He had been caught prematurely by the reaper's clutches, gnarled fingers closing slowly around him. He knew.

But there was a spark. Something, he admitted to himself irritably, that could not be explained by alchemy. It was black in the eager eyes that invaded his ugly home.

While Roy Mustang was here, Berthold would not die.

**I hope that was worth the terrible wait. Did anyone catch the Lord of the Flies referencing? And again, go read A History of Fire!**


	13. Anchor and Birdcage

**Still drowning in schoolwork. Thanks for your patience and enthusiasm. I worked really hard on this chapter, so I hope you guys like it. With luck I will try to work on 14 this weekend. I won't post that, though, until I reach 50 reviews, so please leave one and I'll update accordingly! If you're interested in reading my short story, shoot me a message or see the author's note on 12. Thanks again for your dedication and love!**

The day Riza Hawkeye became a bad student would be the day Roy Mustang sprouted horns and dyed himself blue. To be fair, he'd never _seen_ her schoolwork, but he knew she was always up late, working. She carried too many books and her school bag seemed heavier than she should have been able to carry, and Roy had traded public education for alchemy training, but he knew it would take a lot to lure her away from her work. He only hoped he would be enough.

This would be the third time. Once for her hair, a second for her fists, and now, for no reason other than he missed her. He pressed the door open soundlessly, finding her at her desk as he'd predicted without doubt. She began to open her mouth at the right of raven hair and fiery eyes, but he fluttered a finger to his lips. He wouldn't risk words, not here. They needed to get out. He motioned for them to leave and she stood from her books without a second glance.

They stepped carefully, so carefully, though the manor, Roy aware that his head would be perched above them mantel if Master Hawkeye caught him sneaking around with his daughter. Riza moved silently behind him. She hadn't really seen Roy in months, as they were both so busy. Now, wherever he was leading her, she wanted to be with him. She had to remind herself what they were doing – she was nearing fifteen, he almost sixteen. A strange thrill claimed her feathered heart.

Outside, the night was impenetrable. A cloak had been draped over the trees, strewn in the grass, as though they were standing in the pit of death's merry stomach.

She hissed behind him, "I can't see."

He turned to her and his presence spoke a language they had created – a language of no words and of fingertips and eyelids and lip ridges. The pads of his digits found the curve of her ear.

_Hear me._

His hand connected with hers and fingers met fingers.

"Follow me."

Her teeth scraped her bottom lip and she whispered words only for him."Okay. I'll follow you."

He lead her. Through trunks, over woven roots, between chirping beetles and under the uncompromising black. His hand never left hers, and she followed, as promised, two steps behind.

When they had gone far enough, so that he manor no longer loomed and all in front was unknown, like two travelers who had met their destination, not by maps, but just _knowing_, they sat, and for a while, there was no sound other than the whirring of insect wings and the footsteps of chest clocks.

"I've really missed you," he said.

"Is that why we're here?"

He nodded, then realized she couldn't see it. "Yeah." Quiet. "Riza? Riza, do you ever – do you ever feel something, something really strong? Just, so that you – you..."

She considered. "No. I don't think so."

"I just ... I want to do some good, you know? I want to change, I want to help..."

In the complete darkness, with only Roy's passion palpable in the thick air, his voice swallowing everything, he turned to her. "Don't you feel that, Riza? Don't you feel that desire? To want to ... to just, be something better?" He sighed. Of course not. "What do you dream about?"

Her wings twitched beside him. _"What?_"

"I mean, what do you dream about?"

"Mr. Mustang, I don't..."

An irritated huff escaped him, and judging from the rustling beside her, he was turning to her. "Riza, what are you doing here? With him? Don't you have someplace else you'd rather be? Isn't there something else you'd rather be doing that living in that ugly house with your stiff father? What are goals? What are you going to do when you finish school? You can't stay here forever."

Her walls nearly rose again; this was getting too personal too quickly. But it wasn't fair, for this boy to sit beside her, so full of passion and drive, and for her to be so empty. He didn't deserve it, but the truth was that she couldn't think of a single thing she could do. Her grades wouldn't be enough to take her anywhere extraordinary, and what good could she do with self-taught housekeeping skills? She was tied here, a red string around her back tangling her like a thin, scarred animal.

"I ... I have my father."

"To hell with your father, then!"

"How can you," she began heatedly, rounding on him with a fierce protection only a loyal, beaten dog could manage, "how can you say that after all the generosity he's shown you? My father is not an easy man, he's not soft. How can you damn him after what he's done for you?"

"Sure, sure! He's don't a lot for me; I'm learning, I'm going to be an alchemist! But let me ask you something! What has he done for you? Has he shown you generosity? Has he taught you anything? How can you stay here? He's like a man who's caught a mouse's tail between two fingers!"

"Mr. Mustang-"

"That, too! The formalities! Why can't you call me by my name? I'm not your school teacher, I'm your friend." His voice softened. "Riza, this is not where you belong."

She praised her savior, the black war paint. Had he seen the face she was making now, he wouldn't have yelled. Maybe she needed to be yelled at. But he didn't know; she would never tell. She would never tell that the only place she felt she belonged was wherever he cast a shadow. She would never tell that no one had ever spared her a second glance, much less their kindness, and now he was yelling? This was ultimate trust. This was a new kind of companionship. This was what she needed. Wherever the boy called Roy Mustang was, she wanted to follow. And now, he was here with the cracked man, and that's where she would be too.

"A bird," he said, under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

He sat up. "You really are like a little bird, like a little bird trapped in the wrong cage."

She wanted to say that it wasn't his place; it wasn't hers either. She wanted to drop it, to go back to telling stories and listening to the chirping night. But then, his hand was on hers, an anchor to her wrecked ship, keeping her on shore when the dark sea tempted.

"Riza, do you ever dream? Do you ever imagine? Do you believe in anything?"

Silence in her ears, only his anchor sheilidng her, covering her eyes from the night that was too bright. Only their hearts, ticking together as clockwork.

"It's not foolish," he said softly.

"What about you, then?"

He paused, mulling over her question as if he didn't already know his answer.

Above them, a pinprick. A rocket's last fizzle, or maybe its first. An ink drop of sun ray, the paper cut of a god. A shining bird's egg, premature in such an unwelcoming nest. He smiled, for there were no words. The sky had spoken his six-letters, and maybe she didn't hear it, and that was okay. In this black night, only three things were certain: the flutter of a tiny sun overhead, anchor over healing bird wing, and the promise of two steps behind.


	14. Maybe She's Fallen Too

**Sorry for the long wait, stuff's happening. I'm currently reading Fahrenheit 451, which is an amazing book, and I love Bradbury's style, so I tried to incorporate a bit of that here. Also, can you catch the allusion to one of my all-time favorite books? Shouldn't be too hard. Sorry this one's so short, I'm trying to pack in a lot of emotion and make every word count. Thanks for sticking with me.**

Had he known from the start, would it have been the same? It was like falling asleep: slowly, so slowly. Children's feet shuffle, worm fingers laced around a strong thumb. Not big – tiny, like a talon.

Sleep. A simple concept, complicated in execution. You say, "Okay, now, time to sleep," and then you put your heavy head down and think without really thinking, and then your head gets kind of thick and then you dive. He tried to shake the idea, but it dug in with thorn teeth when he saw her or when he was alone. Once it happened while she was there, and he never really noticed how small her nose was, did he? He should have payed attention, it really was pretty... And then she caught him, and her brow twitched, and what are you looking at? He caught himself too, and he didn't really know. Something about her nose.

This idea stuck, this idea of falling asleep. It kind of made sense, not with words, but it fit in a way that made falling asleep sound like a nice idea - thinking without really thinking.

And so he went on, the idea glued to the side of his head like a snail. Nothing really changed because after all he was only falling asleep and she wasn't even falling with him.

One night, though, the scratchy blankets twisted around him, and he started to really think, and he was scared. What if this wasn't falling, but plummeting – drowning. A seed planted itself in his mind and he couldn't dig it up, and it was no longer an idea of fitting, but a denotation of four letters, and her four letters, and his three, and those other four letters, and certainly he wasn't ready, he was only sixteen, but there was that thing about her nose ... But no, he didn't agree to this, but maybe he didn't have to. Or maybe he already had.

The sheets curled and fisted and his teeth pushed against each other, an angry mob, and his eyelids shut hard because what the hell was he doing, and then his head got thick and he dove and drowned and he feel asleep all at once.


	15. Broken Foot Soldier

**A/N: I'm pleased to announce that These Days of Dust has its first fan art! Go check out Little Talks by ScarletDusk on deviantArt! I'm so flattered and excited that my fanfiction has inspired someone to draw. **

**I'm also very excited to announce that my short story piece was chosen to be the first chapter in the Official Writing Project on Tumblr! If you're interested in reading it, or would like to contribute art inspired by my piece for the project, please contact me at lionhearted-hawk on Tumblr.**

**And, as always, thank you all for sticking with me.**

**EDIT: This chapter happens about a month or so after the previous.**

Roy Mustang was dreamer. He dreamed of a brighter future, and a more beautiful place to live. He didn't say these things, he didn't say a word. Tonight, anyway, he was not a dreamer. He was pretending.

She was making dinner and he was supposed to be studying. Master Hawkeye had left on one of his research trips yesterday and was due to be back in several days. Roy transitioned between reading notes and thinking of that thing about her nose, and alchemy is the – and her eyes – reconstruction and – her nose – of – lips, fingers, and, oh, sod studying if she was there in front of him.

More than that, more than her ears or lips or eyelashes or voice, he wanted to be inside her head. He wanted to know what ponderings filled her time, what images floated behind her eyelids. He wanted to know what she beat herself up over at night, what she thought of when she screamed into her pillow, and what made her hate herself so he could tell her he'd love her more, at least for right then. He wanted to chip away her ceramic mask and disassemble the armor she wore during the day and see Riza Hawkeye in her most simplified form. And -

"Mr. Mustang? Are you alright?"

"Yes," he lied.

"Were you dreaming? The look on your face was so pleasant. I almost didn't want to disturb you, but dinner's ready."

He smiled and set down the book – he wasn't reading anyway – and rose to get bowls. As he did this, he smiled some more. It was like a strange little family already. She would cook something and he would eat it and they would be alright and they would eat and talk lightly and make small jokes and he was in love with her, of course he was. And he thought about what she'd asked – if he was dreaming. He wasn't dreaming, no, he was pretending, if only for a heartbeat.

* * *

Damn these blankets, like a thousand angry thorns tickling his skin, crying for him not to sleep, no, to play with the shadow children instead. Irritated and annoyed, he cast the covers away and tred soundlessly into the hallway, in search of a blanket abandoned on some old couch or stuffed in a forgotten closet. As he snuck, he remembered the first night he'd slept here, all those months ago. Then, he'd wondered if she'd washed the mothy covers, but now he knew it was her. It always seemed to be her, he thought. And it was always her, as he passed her room, and as he saw the thin light easing from under her door. It was past midnight, and was she awake, was she working, was she reading, maybe she fell asleep with the light on, maybe she'd gotten out of bed too. Still, still, something drew him to the door, made him press it slowly, not even thinking, thinking without really thinking. He'd forgotten he'd wanted a blanket, forgotten what he was doing, but the door was inching and there was Riza Hawkeye, figure outlined in the glow of the lamp. She was on her bed, hunched over herself with her head between her knees and arms wrapped round her legs. And she wasn't sleeping, and she wasn't reading, and she was making a soft sound like a flame snuffing out, and he knew it meant exactly one thing.

He floated closer, quietly as not to startle her, but in a way that made his presence known. Her head snapped up and there was Roy Mustang and here was Riza Hawkeye with cheeks that glittered shamefully. He thought, though inappropriate, that she still shone with the strange beauty only she could manage, even when crying.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her night gown and sat for several minutes, fingers laced at her ankles. He stood over the bed and eventually she raised her head to him and she, of all things, _smiled_. She was smiling, like someone with a broken heart, like someone walking on a wounded foot. She would not wince, she would not stumble. She would walk tall and brave until her shadow children came to play, and she would let off the bandages and let her broken foot bleed. And her foot was broken, and her heart too, and she smiled, and she spoke.

"How humiliating. I don't do this often, you know. Always so busy, no time for tears. Sometimes, though. I do a lot of thinking. I don't have much to say but I'm thinking. Sometimes, it's like bags of sand. Sand in my eyes, hands, shoulders, head. Some sand is good, but it weighs me down after a while. Some nights the bags break. I think about it a lot. Probably too much. Bags for school, and for here, in this ugly house. I have a bag for my father - his is on my back. One for you. One for my mother. Tonight, hers broke in my eyes. I've gotten pretty good at carrying bags of sand. Build up a wall, don't let the floods out, see? But sometimes…."

He did not know what to say; he did not know what to think. He'd learned to comfort heartbroken sisters – pat their backs, promise things no one should be allowed to promise. But this girl, he knew, did not was his hand on her back or a shallow voice in her ear. He was worthless in her tears, left speechless and unequipped when he'd finally gotten what he wanted.

She tightened her grip around her knees and laughed shakily. "Well, now I don't know that to do. No one's ever walked in before."

"Well ..." He pulled her desk chair to the bed and sat. "Well, why don't you just pretend I'm not here."

She smiled her broken foot smile and put her face in her knees for several years, or several seconds, or maybe for both of their lifetimes. Then she did not do anything for a few more years and slowly, slowly, her shoulders began to shake and slowly slowly slowly her eyelids fell and she pretended and pretended and pretended, if only for a heartbeat and if only for a thousand, and she was a solider with a broken foot, a soldier hauling bags of sand, and the stars were raining all around them and they were both so helpless.


	16. Fire on Broken Face

**Sorry for the lack of updates, I'm sure that was painful. I've been thinking a lot about what I'm going to do after TDoD, and that's kind of scary because I'm starting to have to make serious decisions about my writing. Do I work on another multichapter fic? Do I finally get working on my original ideas? What if people don't support me? What if I make a mistake? It's all very scary, and maybe that's part of my reasoning for not working on TDoD as frequently as I used to.**

The next several days passed in a beautiful dream that he wished never to end. He had a pathetic thought that Master Hawkeye would never return form his trip, but he knew this was childish. But over those short days, Roy had learned more about Riza than he had in a long time. They were insignificant, these things that he'd discovered, but he couldn't help but notice that she sometimes hummed under her breath as she completed chores, or that she stuck a pencil behind her ear while she did homework. He had also become quite fond of the crease between her brows as she read, and he felt a strange sadness when he saw her subconsciously tear away at the skin around her fingernails. And even now, as he sat at the table and made an attempt at studying, he couldn't help but let his eyes wander to the sofa upon which she read. As much as Roy wanted to learn alchemy, he was also beginning to master the art of slacking off, and he let himself become distracted by the moon rays that mingled and morphed with lamplight. The back of the couch was to him, but he figured that if he could see her, the moon/lamp hybrid would look very pretty on her hair. Anyway, he'd studied long enough, and he deserved a break, didn't he? Abandoning his notes, he approached the sofa. He thought she would still be reading, but he found her asleep, lips pressed and eyelashes woven, that little crease still present between her eyebrows. Her eyes were shut with a fierce pleasure, fists curled protectively at her sides. She was completely still, save her eyelids which twitched periodically. Roy thought he could stand here all night and watch her, but as the idea passed behind his eyes, hers shot open.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I was just checking on you."

She sat up and tucked her hands under her thighs. "It's okay. It's getting late anyway."

"Were you dreaming?"

"I don't know. No."

"Oh, come on," he teased. "You can tell me."

"It's alright. It's dumb."

"Dreaming isn't dumb," he said quite seriously.

"I know."

"So tell me!"

"Well ... have you ever thought of running away?"

He tried to imagine her fleeing through the woods. "A little. Have you?"

"Not exactly. That's what I was dreaming of though. It was a really good dream." She paused, then laughed under her breath. "That's kind of cruel, isn't it? If I did the real thing, it wouldn't be anything like in the dream."

"What if I went with you?" he half-joked.

"Very funny." She licked her lip. "I don't feel like talking about his anymore."

He hesitated and took a seat next to her. "Well ... you _could_ run away, if you really wanted to. You could get up right now and walk and never turn back."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I can't."

"Well, why not?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Why?"

"I don't want to!"

"You can't part with these creaky floors? Or your dad?"

Her head shook furiously. "No. No!"

He lowered his voice, because as he thought, he became scared. "Is it me?"

"Stop!" She rose to her feet suddenly, fists shaking at her sides. "You don't understand! I know you don't! But I just can't leave. I can't leave this house or my father or you. I told you all those months ago that we would be together for a long time. Don't you get it? I can't tell you because I've made a promise, and I'm not asking you to understand but can't you see it? In my eyes? Can't you tell? Stop, _stop_ _pretending_ like you know what keeps me in this house or with him, or you. I am not a person, don't you see!" she shrieked, tears staining her face like fire. "I made a promise and I have secrets and I am not a person because of that! I am a tool! I am valuable and worthless and I made the choice! Don't you see it! I am not a person, so stop messing with me like I am! I can't play this game with you, not this time, because things are serious! I'm a tool! So just stop it!"

He stared, jaw slack and eyes big enough to swallow the world.

She swallowed. "I'm not a person, so why does my heart hurt like this?"

She stood as the stars died and were swallowed, and fire broke her cheeks and her face cracked like land that had been walked on too often. She left, and he was a fool, and he did not understand anything, and despite her pencil and her humming and that crease and the broken flesh on her fingers, he did not know Riza Hawkeye at all.


	17. Author's Note

Sorry to get your hopes up if you thought this was an update for TDoD. This is actually just an author's note apologizing for the mini-hiatus. I have a lot going on right now and I can hardly think about myself let alone my fan fiction. If you guys have forgotten about TDoD, that's okay. I didn't even expect to have such a long period of time with no updates, but to be honest this is the first time I've even been able to think about it in several weeks. I hope I'm not disappointing too much. Any continued support is appreciated. I will delete this note whenever I update the new chapter, whenever that may be. Hopefully next week? I really have no clue. If you would still like to keep up with me until I get this sorted out, my blog is lionhearted-hawk on tumblr. You can also track TDoD on tumblr with the tag of "These Days of Dust."


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